


Bit of Rough

by r0landblum



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gardener!Giles, M/M, Prince!Spike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28746000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r0landblum/pseuds/r0landblum
Relationships: Rupert Giles/Spike
Kudos: 8





	Bit of Rough

The morning was an unremarkable one. Nothing had to be honoured that day and in the spirit of that leisure, a young man threw open the doors to his balcony, cigarette in mouth. His official title was Prince William, a name that had since been eschewed, at least in his own self-important mind. The crisp air rolled into his chambers like the fog rolled over the awakening landscape in the drowsy sunlight. 

The thin French cigarette between his lips met a struck a match, flame casting an eerie contrast from his unearthly pallor. He breathed in smoke and let himself exist in the quiet. However, it wasn’t long until that was disturbed by the soft sound of the crunch of leaves underfoot. This, the prince missed. 

‘Good morning, Your Highness’ 

Spike jumped a little before he saw the figure standing underneath his balcony. It was the new gardener, Mr. Giles.

‘Scared me half to death’ the prince muttered, not unkindly, but not dripping with enthusiasm either. 

Mr. Giles smiled up at him, eyes crinkling at their edges. ‘My apologies. I didn’t meant to startle you.’ 

‘Yes, well, I was just having a serene moment to myself, that’s all.’ 

Mr. Giles was the replacement for the gardener who had retired in the winter and had only been employed by the Pratt family a couple of months. He was a man nearing the end of his 40s, tall and broad, but not so much that it was striking. There was a dignified air about him, polite, well-spoken. Well, usually.

‘You know, smoking is terribly bad for your health my Lord. I’d highly advise that you quit.’ 

Spike raised his eyebrows in indignation at the comment. Staff had seldom had the gall to comment on his behaviour since the onset of his adulthood. What an unexpected time for that to change, he thought. He leaned over the edge slightly in order to accent his upcoming question with a glare.

‘Listen...Jeeves...do you have children?’ 

The older man pondered this wistfully for a moment, unperturbed. ‘Well, yes, of sorts.’ 

‘How about you go bother them instead then.’ the Prince spat, making a point to flick his cigarette ash over the balcony.

‘Oh, they are all quite grown now I assure you!’ 

‘And I’m 23! Leave me be’. The prince struck yet another match to help his dwindling smoulder.

The gardener put his hands on his hips as he stood in thought for a moment, staring at the ground where the ash had fell. Suddenly, his head jerked up.

‘I say! Was it you who set fire to one of my rose bushes last week and charred it to a crisp?’ 

‘That would be OUR rose bush, as in the Pratt family rose bush, and also, no, I did not. How dare you.’ William smirked, straightening up to take in a large, smug puff of nicotine. 

‘P-Perhaps your parents should be informed of your little- little hobby after all.’ Giles frowned sternly.

‘Jules...’

‘Giles.’

‘Giles, if you really want me to stop smoking this cigarette then you’re going to have to come take it out of my mouth yourself. Which, considering your tender age, is going to be quite unlikely.’

It was then that the gardener placed the shears on the ground and determinedly made the few paces it took to get to the trellis. Spike popped his head over the side, a frown of disbelief forming between his brows. By God, he’s actually doing it, he thought to himself. 

The man was indeed several feet above the ground already and it did not take him too long before he had completely scaled the structure with surprising dexterity. His head popped above the white stone balustrade and turned to shoot a triumphant grin at the prince before he climbed up the last few to have his body completely level to Spike’s. 

Still clinging on with one hand, Mr. Giles reached out a plucked the French thin from the slightly agape mouth of the royal before throwing it on the damp ground. 

‘Tender age indeed.’

Spike couldn’t even find it in him to be mad, after all, how could a person with unlimited supply of any material thing he desired mourn over something so small? He was only preoccupied with one thing now, and that was the thrill of being challenged and the unexpected yet oddly handsome challenger. 

He cocked his head at him then, eyes glittering. He allowed a few moments of silence before he spoke.

‘Are you going to hang off my wall all day or are you going to come inside?’ Giles shot him a slightly puzzled look. ‘I’ve got some Dalmore single malt Scotch in my decanter.’

‘Your Highness, it’s barely past 9 in the morning. I was hoping to be getting on with some work.’ The discomfort of his position was beginning to show now though, his grip on the wood shifting regularly.

‘It’s been aged 50 years.’

‘Ah....well that changes things I suppose.’ He looked at the Prince again, waiting for more encouragement. 

Willingly, the Prince stepped back and motioned towards his balcony doors. ‘Please.’ 

With that the gardener stepped onto the balustrade then jumped down, Spike then only just realised how tall he was as he had to tilt his head back to look at him in the face. The older man shot him a smile before going turning to enter. 

He then did whatever any British person does upon entering a room, and cranes his neck in an endearing way to take in all the room can offer, checking out the space from side to ceiling.

The ceiling was high, naturally, and the fourposter bed was draped with various cottons and silks, ranging from ivory white to arctic and China blue. The carpet was intricately patterned with flora as were the walls and the mirrors shimmered in gold gilt frames.

‘Very charming.’ Giles complimented before bending over to take off his dew-dampened work boots. They were brown, much like most of his clothes. As a person he had an earthy aura about him, reliable and rustic. Even his skin sported a slight tan from his outdoor profession and many years pottering away in greenhouses.  
The prince shut the doors behind them, stilling the billowing curtains and then breezing past the gardener in his stiff white tunic. He went to pour them both a finger of whiskey. 

The clinking of glass hung heavy in the quiet. Mr. Giles stood not knowing where to put himself but not quite adapting an awkward air. There was a coolness with him that comes with age. Spike eventually returned over to him.

‘It’s a very...complex old number.’ The prince commented, handing his guest a tumbler.

‘Quite-‘ Giles went to grab the glass but Spike’s hand lingered there with his. Skin brushed skin. ‘Yet - smooth too.’ A moment would have been an accident but there were a few too many. Eventually, the royal’s grip relented and he took to pacing around the room, gentling swilling the liquor in it’s glass.

‘An extensive list of flavours, red berries, liquorice root, hazelnut and honey to name a few. Autumnal and familiar, yet tantalising.’ The words he spoke rose from the back of his throat slowly and deliberately, carrying thick and deep resonance. Yet his register couldn’t compare to the gardener’s when he wasn’t even trying. 

‘It lulls you into a false sense of security before it bites you. I have tasted it once before and have not forgotten it since.’ He raised the glass up to his nose and sniffed, closing his eyes in appreciation before opening them to shoot a lowered glance at the prince. ‘Blood orange.’ 

Spike had paced closer to him and slowed himself to stillness.  
‘You have very fine taste.’ 

‘And you a fine palette.’ 

The younger man lifted his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’  
They clinked glasses and drank. Spike, not at any loss of excess and luxury took his back all at once but Giles sipped his measure economically. 

‘I want to savour it.’ The man answered the prince’s unverbalised question. ‘It’s not often I come across something this beautiful and rare.’ 

‘Who says I want you around all day?’ Spike teased with a smile that flashed teeth. Mischief tugged at the corner of Giles’ mouth. 

‘Perhaps that packet of cigarettes in the pocket of your breeches.’ 

‘Are you blackmailing me so you can stand there and drink rare whiskey?’ Spike laughed. 

‘You didn’t invite me to sit down, it’s remarkably rude to take a seat as a guest without permission. Also you did invite me in.’ Giles took another sip, pleasure working its way into his weathered countenance. A gulp tightened the muscles of the prince’s jaw as he watched. He forgot what line of conversation he had to respond to. 

‘How is it?’

‘Exceptionally sexy.’ 

‘Are we still talking about the whiskey?’ Spike questioned with a wicked grin. 

‘Were we ever?’ 

Silence fell between them, and despite the residual burn in both of their throats they had to make efforts to re-wet their drying mouths. There was a faint gulp. 

Giles was staring directly at his whiskey glass, suddenly overly interested in the very unspecific and unremarkable colour of aged Dalmore. Spike found himself looking, calculating, his eyes scintillating as if something had been activated deep within him. The glass continued to be stared at.

‘You are allowed to have it, you know.’ His voice was soft as he tried to catch the older man’s eye by tilting his head ever so slightly. Giles looked up then, allowing himself to feel a few moments of sheepishness before his face hardened. He shot the rest of the Scotch before placing the tumbler on the dresser and making his eyes meet the prince’s again. 

The younger man tempted closing some distance between them, eyes not quite finding a point to rest their focus. He noticed that the gardener’s lips; thin, angular and masculine, appeared somewhat pursed even at rest. He couldn’t help but find them inviting. 

Spike was so close to him now, but bottled. He made out like he was leaning to grab the tumbler from the dresser. 

‘Oh- allow me, sire.’ Giles fumbled, trying to reach for it himself at an awkward angle. Before he could try and save the man any hassle, Spike had taken the back of Giles’ neck in his right hand and pulled his face to his for a much needed, tension breaking kiss. 

The suddenness of impulse that raced in Spike’s mind and sang in his chest knocked the breath out of him, and surprise did the same unto the gardener. Their mouths worked together with a thankful desperation, lurching and flowing, softly exchanging. Giles took the man in his arms and Spike’s other hand slithered around his waist underneath his jacket. It was thick and soft to dig his fingers into. 

Intimate touch prompted Giles to relocated his mouth to Spike’s jaw and neck, which was thrown back to him in welcome. Quick, short kisses we planted on bone and muscle.

‘Your skin has the magnificence of alabaster.’ Giles panted with an inotation of amazement. The royal smirked at the compliment fully aware of his vampiric beauty. 

He looked up at the man who was taking him in and took him in in return, breath heavy. His hand found a resting place on his jaw, once nearly as strong and defined as his own but now soft with age. He hadn’t the vocabulary to express how in awe he was of his features. The best love letters he had ever written had been composed of abstract feeling, borne of absurdities. He hadn’t had a way with words since he had stopped being William. Emotions, he thought, were to better to be acted on than articulated ham-fisted.  
And yet.

‘If I’m alabaster then you could be my bit of rough.’

Giles’ brow knotted and his mouth opened slightly in light hearted offence at the best response that Spike had to offer. 

‘I am Oxford educated I will have you know...my liege.’  
They both chuckled softly, taking a moment to appreciate the other’s ridiculousness. 

But they couldn’t keep their mouths apart for long, and after this moment, their disparate lips met again. Their bodies, cascading and shivering, lost in each other again. And so melted away the morning in the crucible of passion that lovers fortify so well, and will continue to in many forms for the rest of time.


End file.
